


Won't Be Pretty

by Overdressedtokill (SkyeStan)



Series: Killers for Hire (SkyeWard AU) [8]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Killers for Hire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-14
Updated: 2014-09-14
Packaged: 2018-02-17 08:12:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2302694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkyeStan/pseuds/Overdressedtokill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>prequel. the first five times skye and ward cross paths.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Won't Be Pretty

The first time they meet is in that shitty little diner.  They get out alive, they don’t exchange anything more than vitriol and disdain, and they go their separate ways.  She hacks every server she can think of until she finds him, and calls that a victory.  He picks up someone in a bar that kind of looks like her, and calls it a night.

 

\--

 

The second time they meet, she’s stuck in a firefight.  She’s huddled under a bar in a mansion that was considerably less blood-stained five minutes ago, and she’s trying to make a Molotov Cocktail and can’t find a lighter.

And then there’s a hand offering her one, a shiny silver one with the ace of spaces engraved on one side.  She looks over and there he is, grinning at her with a split lip.

“It’s not mine,” he tells her.  “I promise I have better taste.”

She doesn’t believe him, but she takes the lighter anyway.

“Want me to toss it?” he asks.

She scoffs.  “I can handle it,” she says.  And she does.

They’re scurrying out of a mansion that was considerably less on fire ten minutes ago, when he asks her “Hey, aren’t you that girl from the diner?”

“I don’t know,” she asks, watching her handiwork go up in flames.  “Aren’t you Grant Ward?”

He makes a clicking sound with his tongue.  “You’ve heard of me.”

She rolls her eyes.  “I crosse-checked the bullets used at the crime scene with names in the Interpol database.  Then picked your face out of a lineup.”

“So you’re Interpol?” he asks.  She knows he’s looking at her.  With her ripped, stained dress and her singed hair.  He can soak it in, for all she cares.

“Not even a little bit,” she says.  “But their database is easy enough to break into.”

“Do I get your name?” he asks.  “Or what you were doing out here?”

“Same as you,” she tells him.  “I’m making a living.”

“Name?” he repeats.

“Third date,” she tells him.

When she leaves, he doesn’t give chase.  She kind of wishes he did, and then hates herself a little.

 

\--

The third time they meet, she steps in front of his motorcycle.  Which is stupid and reckless on at least thirty different levels but she’s pissed as hell and she barely even knows this jackass, certainly not well enough to know if he’d run her down or not, but here she is.  In her little nightclub dress and her leather jacket, arms crossed as his headlight grows closer, closer-

He stops, inches in front if her.  She stands, unflinching, wrinkling her noses at the smell of exhaust.

He takes off his helmet.  As slowly as he can, like she’s supposed to be impressed by a strong jaw and a sharp set of cheekbones.  Please.  He tucks it under his arm, and still hasn’t turned off the light.

“You lost, kid?” he asks.  And he knows she isn’t, he fucking knows.  She wouldn’t be in his direct fucking path if she was lost.

She’s decided she hates him.  But she has to be subtle about it.  “I hate you,” she declares. So there’s that.

He steps off his bike.  “You don’t even know me.”

“Tonight,” she says.  “At the embassy.  You had the better vantage point.”

He tilts his head to one side.  “Excuse me?”

Some part of her, the crazy part most likely, decides it would be a great idea to invade his personal space.  Since he’s only like, a foot taller than she is with fifty pounds more muscle, and she’s only sticking her finger into his chest in the most accusatory way she can manage.  “You could’ve shot him from your vantage point before I shot him point blank.  I saw your sight.  I saw it!”

“I wasn’t there,” he says.  “I was across town, getting a drink.  Ask anyone.”

“So you just happened to be in Zagreb,” she says.  “Fleeing the city.”

“You know if you wanted to see me,” he says.  “You could’ve asked for my number the last time.”

She snarls, and when she goes to poke his chest again, he catches her wrist.

She’s suddenly very aware of him, though she tells herself that his stubble would not give her thighs the best kind of burn, and that the smell of motor oil on his skin is disgusting and not intoxicating.

His hand is tucking her hair behind her ear.  She didn’t give him permission to do that, to stare at her like that, with such a dumb fondness forming in his eyes.  He doesn’t know her.  He doesn’t know anything.

“Don’t ever do me any favors,” she says.  “I can do everything on my own.”

“Of course you can,” he says.  “But that doesn’t mean you have to.”  Hand in her hair.  Hand on the nape of her neck.  Nope.  Not on his life.  

She bats his hand away. “Fuck off,” she says.  “Don’t ever pull a stunt like that again.”

“Or you’ll what?” he asks.  “Kill me?”

“Oh, you’ll wish you were dead,” she seethes.  

He has the audacity to laugh at her.  “You need a ride to the next town over, kid?” he asks.  “I’ve got a spare helmet.”

She could shove him, right about now.  She really could.  She settles for telling him  “Fuck off and die.”  She turns away.

He catches her wrist and tugs her back, and she knows he’s going to kiss her but she lets him do it anyway.  He tastes amazing and she hates it.

“See you around,” he tells her.  His stubble.  His stupid fucking stubble.

“I mean it,” she says.  “I hate you.”

“Course you do,” he says.  “But I think I kind of like you.”

“Gross,” she tells him.  

And she bails.  

He’s calling after her.  Asking for her name.  She promised, didn’t she?

Well, fuck that.

\--

 

They fuck the fourth time.  She’s not proud of it, but it’s damn good sex.  She can’t really track how it happened, just that she had been arguing with him at a party for a debutante that needed to be put down and suddenly he’s pulling her into a library, like this is some kind of trashy romance novel or Beauty and the Beast parody or whatever.  It’s fucked up, is the point.

He’s rough and his nails are too long and he’s barely kissing her mouth, just her jaw and her neck, scraping with his teeth and following with light suction.  It’s pretty perfect, actually.  She drags her nails across his scalp and then pulls fistfuls of his hair with enough force to make him groan.

He doesn’t want her to be gentle.  Which is good, because she hadn’t been planning on it.

Her back is shoved against the wall at his hands grab at the top of her dress.  “Zipper,” she hisses, as he pins her hips down with his leg.  “Idiot.”

“Shut up,” he snaps back, reaching around to find the zipper of the dress.  One hand tugs the zipper down, slowly, making sure her dress doesn’t catch.  One hand stays on her bare back, like he’s holding her in place, like his leg wasn’t enough.  Such a need to be dominant.  Such a urge to be in charge.  Such a control freak.

She’s going to break him.  She’s seen bigger men fall.  From bullets, mostly.  But still. 

His hands are back in front, again.  He grabs the top of her dress and tugs down.  It falls off her breasts, down to her hips, and he crashes into her again, all lips and growls.  He pins her, kisses her until there’s no air left in her lungs and she shoves him back, takes a deep breath, and practically tackles him onto the ottoman.

She rides him like a fucking champion.  Because that’s what she is.  A champion.

He makes her come.  Like, a lot.  Because he’s a bastard.  

She gathers her dress, zips it back up, and he puts his pants back on. She trips him on their way out of the library, but the debutante’s already left and so when he tries to ask for her name, again, she kicks him in the shin and tries to steal his bike.

He laughs at her.  She hates him.  She really does.

 

\--

 

By the fifth time, they know better than to call it a coincidence or an accident.  He doesn’t accuse her of following him, but he's probably thinking it.

She’s got motor oil on her shorts and the air reeks of smoke and gunpowder.  Her ears are still ringing.

They end up in the same getaway car, which is not an accident, either.  It’s definitely a mistake.  But Skye can call this entire thing a mistake, really.  Not just getting in the car.

He’s driving like a maniac and she shouldn’t find it so hot.  Maybe it’s the adrenaline.  Maybe it’s the knowledge of what he did to her the last time. 

She’s going to hell, anyway.  Might as well accept the company.  “My name is Skye,” she announces, over the roar of the engine.

“What?” he yells back.  He turns to look at her.

“The road!” she snaps.

“I know!” he yells back.  “But you started it!”

“You’re the one who kept asking,” she shouts.  “So now you fucking know!”

“Fantastic!” he says.  “I’m so glad you waited until I’m practically deaf in my right fucking ear!”

“Shut the fuck up!” she says back.

He pulls over, which is probably a wise decision.  He stares at her for what seems like ages.  “Skye, huh?”

Something sparks.  Something like in the library or the diner or whenever they’re near each other.  This inexplicable and overwhelming desire to take each other’s clothes off.

Which they do.  Very quickly.

He’s inside her and it’s too small in this car.  The steering wheel is digging into her back.  This is a mistake.  Getting into the car is a mistake.  Fucking Grant Ward, again, is a double mistake.

She doesn’t even know where her gun is.  That’s how badly he distracts her.  And she’d be more disgusted with herself if the sex wasn’t so completely and utterly worth it.

But it’s just sex, she reminds herself, as she tries to brace herself against the steering wheel.  It’s just sex.  He’s not a boyfriend.  Not a friend.  Just a really good stress-reliever.

He accidentally slams her against the wheel, and the horn beeps, just once.

“Idiot,” she says, under her breath.  “Move.”

“Fine,” he hisses back.  What she meant was move back so she’s not against the fucking horn.  He took it as ‘move faster.’  Which feels amazing and holy fuck, she’s seeing white.

She’s slumped against the car horn, and the blaring noise is scaring the birds.  He’s coming and this is the best mistake she’s ever made.  It really is.  It has to be.

Besides.  She has everything under control.


End file.
